Half-Awake in a Fake Empire
by illbeshootinformyownparnasse
Summary: An AU in which the barricade boys are college students in present-day NYC, rated T for language and sexuality, drabble-centric.
1. Chapter 1

_This is an AU in which the _Amis _are college students in present-day New York City. They call themselves the Independents, a group that fights for issues such as marriage equality, women's rights, environmental issues, and the education system. It is rated T for language and some sexuality. It is written in drabbles with pairings that will fluctuate._

_Disclaimer: The original characters are Victor Hugo's. The scenarios and words are mine._

It's not that Montparnasse is mean to Jehan. He's not. It's just that he's not as nice as he should be, Courfeyrac thinks. He makes Jehan sad without realizing, and Jehan deserves to be courted with flowers and ukulele music and poetry and piggy-back rides across campus because he twisted his ankle while looking up a cloud which he insists looked like a cat. Purely hypotheticals, of course.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine, but the scenarios and words are._

Jehan is perhaps the only person who truly sees Eponine, and he tells her this one night when they're at Enjolras's on his balcony. "You're sad," he says, twisting a dirty blonde curl in between his fingertips, "but it's a hopeful kind of sad." Eponine is speechless and so she kisses him. He holds her and they stargaze together as best as they can through the bright city lights until dawn.


	3. Chapter 3

_Thanks so much to the people who reviewed. I wasn't sure if people would like it, so you guys are awesome. _

_Disclaimer: The characters are Hugo's._

When Eponine doesn't immediately begin wearing the coat Marius bought her for her birthday, he asks her about it. It's blue and pretty, and it matches her eyes, and he was proud of himself for picking it out all by himself. He thinks it suits her much more than the ill-fitting black greatcoat that's in need of a wash and some alteration. When he expresses this to her after a meeting with the rest of the Independents, though, her eyes drop and she mutters something unintelligible. "What?" She mutters it again. "'Ponine, speak up please."

"It's my father's."

He's silent for a moment murmuring an apology and hugging her awkwardly.


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: None of the characters are mine. _

Cosette and Marius are usually a fun couple to be around, but when they fight, it's a war zone. This time it's when he finds out that she slept with Jehan ("He recited poetry to me, Marius, what was I supposed to do?") and Courfeyrac ("Well, he just happened to be there") before they started dating. Marius claims that she should have told him, Cosette claims that it's not of his business, and everyone else tries to avoid them as much as possible. They finally make up after a few days of not talking to one another, and all is well again, though Marius still gets touchy whenever Jehan greets Cosette like he greets everyone else, with a kiss on the mouth, or when Courfeyrac shoots her a flirtatious wink, and the issue is raised again.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: Characters are not mine_.

Cosette is introduced to the Independents by Marius, and when she first arrives, she's overwhelmed. They're such a tight-knit group, and they debate about…well, everything, and not just polite arguing, but finger-in-your-face, voices-rising, enjolras-broke-a-glass-at-the-second-meeting-she-went-to-because-he-was-so-angry debating. The first few meetings, she remains quiet, if not silent; however, by the fifth or sixth meeting, they're all enamored of her.

She teaches Jehan how to French braid, and he soon begins greeting her, as he greets everyone else, with a kiss on the lips. She sneaks Courfeyrac out of statistics class and takes him to get tacos, and he starts laying his head in her lap at meetings. She takes Grantaire home when he's too incoherent to find his bike, and he starts putting his arm around her when she sits next to him at meetings. She argues that there's "no wrong way to be a woman" when a scandal involving a female senator denouncing another for being too feminine emerges, and Combeferre gives her a nod of approval. She picks up after Bossuet when he breaks something, earning his love, as well as the love of Joly and Musichetta.

The only two who don't immediately adopt her as one of their own are Enjolras and Eponine, and, though it bothers her a bit, she's much too happy with her wonderful freckled boyfriend and his insane motley crew to dwell too much on it. She's melded into the group, and it's as if she's always been there. She can't remember being happier.


	6. Chapter 6

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

Everyone bets on the reason that Montparnasse hadn't beaten the shit out of Courfeyrac yet. Combeferre puts twenty bucks on mere inconvenient timing (Montparnasse's boss, an irate man called Thernadier, of whom no one knew the occupation, wasn't very consistent, and Montparnasse never could tell ahead of time when he would be called in), Cosette bets ten that he's not doing it as a personal favor to Jehan, and Grantaire bets thirty that he doesn't see him as a real challenge. Months later, when all was said and done, Grantaire would walk away thirty bucks richer.

Montparnasse has never seen Courfeyrac as a serious threat. He's just annoying. Let him write sonnets about Jehan's ass. Let the obnoxious kid serenade his poet when Jehan and Montparnasse are at Starbucks. Jehan really loves Montparnasse, and Montparnasse actually likes Jehan, and they have really great sex, and Montparnasse knows that's enough to make him stay.

Still, it doesn't stop him from holding his blonde boyfriend a bit more securely when Courfeyrac approaches.


	7. Chapter 7

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

The first time Montparnasse's mother found Eponine asleep in his bed, she gave them a talk about safe sex. After the next few times it happened, she gave her a key. Eponine had always been the only girl who had never looked twice at him, and maybe that's why he was so damn obsessed with her. He denied it to all his friends, he did, but he knew that he would do anything for her, that dirty, impossible spitfire. He had taught her to smoke her first cigarette, to drink her first beer, and he'd taken her virginity one night in the back of her own Chevy Impala.

For the moment, she was traipsing after Pontmercy and acting all high-falutin' with the pretentious douchebag Independents, but it didn't bother him too much. The bond that they had transcended infatuation. This had happened before, where she would get caught up with another man or woman, and she always came back to him in the end.

In the meantime, he always had Jehan.


	8. Chapter 8

_Disclaimer: Still not mine._

When Grantaire firsts ask to paint him for a project in his Study of the Human Form class, Enjolras hesitates. He knows that a painting is a huge time commitment, and he doesn't know if he can give up that much time when he could be working. When Grantaire asks again when Enjolras is tipsy on lemonade that Bahorel spiked, he says yes.

When the day arrives and Grantaire shows him what he has sketched ahead of time for the painting, Enjolras drops his bottle of water. "Look, 'Taire, I know we've talked about this before, I'm asexual, this could never…I don't…I'm not…"

Grantaire snorts and rolls his eyes. "I don't want to fuck you, E, I just want to paint you." Unable to produce a counterargument, Enjolras shuts up and starts to undress as Grantaire, suddenly taking on a grace that he typically misplaces, starts working on the background.


	9. Chapter 9

_Disclaimer: Definitely mine. That was a lie._

Grantaire loves all his friends, the little shits, but he has a special place in his heart for Eponine. She understands him on a level that not even Enjolras, the man to whom he bares his soul through drunk-texts, or Jehan, the poet who sees things in people they themselves don't see, do. She has the kindest heart, the saddest voice, and the kind of inner beauty that only comes from extreme hardships and manifests itself in one's eyes and smile.

She's kept him from throwing himself off of a building more than once, and when he stumbles into their apartment, rejected by Enjolras and drunk beyond belief, she merely kisses him, helps him into her bed, holds him as he cries, and wakes him up the next morning with coffee and bacon.

She's the only one of the Independents who can match him at a drinking contest, those she's never defeated him yet. She drinks with him, she cries with him, and she is always there for him.

Marius claims that "'Ponine" came from him, but everyone really knows that it's the affectionate nickname Grantaire gave her. Marius thinks that the reason 'Ponine is there is for him, and maybe it started off that way, but now everyone knows that Eponine is there for Grantaire more than anyone.


	10. Chapter 10

_Disclaimer: THESE. BE. NOT. MINE._

Montparnasse kissed Courfeyrac once when he was lecturing him about how to treat Jehan, and they both felt guilty about it afterwards, though the dashing vagabond decidedly less so. He did it to shut up the other man, and also because the hyperactive twat was wearing tight pants, so as long as Courfeyrac doesn't open his stupid mouth to Jehan about it, he doesn't think it's a big deal.

However, the next time he's in the shower, Montparnasse idly wonders if Jehan would be opposed to a threesome. The things he could tell from that kiss…

His shower lasts for a while.


	11. Chapter 11

_Disclaimer: These characters do not belong to me. That's the marvelous Victor Hugo._

Courfeyrac has kissed everyone in the Independents except Grantaire and Enjolras, and he's really quite proud of it. He loves telling the story, so when Cosette asks to hear it, and everyone else groans, he prepares to retell it with a glee seen only in children at Christmastime.

"I dated Jehan on and off freshman year, so we've kissed quite a lot." Courfeyrac shoots a wink at the poet, and he buries his face in his teal sweater. "I told Montparnasse this once—"

"You didn't!" Cosette gasps.

"I did. He got very snide about it, so I kissed 'Ponine to piss him off."

"I remember that," recalls Eponine, smiling, tucked into a corner of the café by Feuilly.

Courfeyrac nods and winks. "10/10. That was the birth of an idea that would soon grow to consume me. I became obsessed with the need to kiss all of these glorious bastards here. So the next time Marius was buying shots, I kissed Feuilly."

"He did, the sonuvabitch."

"And I'm pretty sure he moaned 'Poland' into my mouth."

"I did not!" Feuilly protests.

"Sure you didn't," Courfeyrac teases. Feuilly crosses his arms and mutters another affirmation to Eponine, who pats his arm reassuringly. "Then, later that night, due to the fact that he had entirely too much vodka, Feuilly kissed Combeferre, and I sort of weaseled my way into that one. Never doubt my weaseling prowess; it is something to be feared and admired."

"I'll say," Combeferre mumbles under his breath to Enjolras, who laughs.

"I heard that. A few nights later, I drunk-kissed Bossuet, and then Joly found out, so I kissed him to shut him up. He kept whining that I got him sick."

"You _did_ get me sick!"

"Bossuet got you sick."

"…because _you_ kissed him!"

Courfeyrac waved a hand dismissively. "Details. Bahorel and I kissed on my birthday when we were playing spin-the-bottle, and before you interrupt, it does count, so quit your bitching." Bahorel rolls his eyes. "That was the same night I grabbed everyone's ass. Great night. And…I think that's everyone. Grantaire and Enjolras are spoilsports and won't let me near them."

"Can you blame us?" Grantaire asked.

"You've kissed me as well," Cosette reminds him, and Marius visibly stiffens.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot. Or didn't wanna say in front of Pontmercy, 'cause he's gonna be a little bitch about it," Courfeyrac grins at his friend.

Marius just scoots down in his chair so that his back is touching the seat, crosses his arms, and pouts.


	12. Chapter 12

_Disclaimer: NOT MINE._

"Jehan, for the love of God, what is that?"

"What? My sweater?"

"It has ducks on it."

"I like it! It's cute!"

Montparnasse rolls his eyes. "My God, you're not even wearing it ironically, are you?"


	13. Chapter 13

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

Gavroche and Eponine are rarely at the same meeting, as she misses quite a few to work and his parents are unpredictable with how much freedom he has, but when they are, he'll sit in her lap and she'll buy him a Coke and a pastry. The Independents finds this random show of affection strange. It's months before they ask her and she shrugs and replies, "He's my brother."

This is just a reminder to most of them of how little they truly know about Eponine (of course, this isn't news to Grantaire).


	14. Chapter 14

_Disclaimer: Not Mine._

It's a rare day than Jehan's clothing is lacking patterns, and it's an even rarer occasion that it actually matches. The first time Courfeyrac comments on his outfit, a floral button-down shirt tucked into a pair of jeans with a different floral pattern, he replies, "Patterns make my ass look cute." When he walks away after the conversation is finished, Courfeyrac can't help but notice and agree.

From then on, whenever someone comments on Jehan's bizarre wardrobe, he tells them that they just don't understand color the way he does, and the Independents soon adopt this answer when asked about his way of dressing by anyone outside of the group.

They may be a bunch of angry, pretentious, middle-class muckety-mucks, but they protect their own. The only thing that they all have in common is their unswerving loyalty to each other.


	15. Chapter 15

_Disclaimer: Me no own._

Courfeyrac's knowledge of German opera is astonishingly extensive, and when Enjolras asks him about this one day, he blushes, ducks his head, and refuses to answer, all very unlike him.

Later that night, when he's trying to fall asleep, he remembers.

He was at Jehan's one night, cooking an Italian dish that he couldn't pronounce because it was his boyfriend's favorite, when he heard the act two finale from _Die Fledermaus_ coming from the shower. He smiled and hummed along; it was one of Jehan's favorites. When Jehan got out of the shower, a towel wrapped torturously low around his waist and his long dishwater curls a tangled mess, he crossed to his bedroom, singing an aria from Wagner's _Ring Cycle_. Jehan was always singing German opera, and it might have bothered Courfeyrac if it wasn't just so damn pretty, and if Jehan wasn't just so damn cute.

Courfeyrac smiles at this memory, rolls over onto his stomach, and finally drifts off to sleep, imagining that Jehan is sleeping beside him like he used to.


	16. Chapter 16

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

_A big thanks you to everyone who followed the story, and who added it to their favorites; it means a lot to this starving artist._

Montparnasse discovers that Jehan spoke four languages fluently the first time that Jehan spends the night.

"What did you say?"

"Hmm?" Jehan asks sleepily, curled up adorably on his side, eyes closed, looking so at home in Montparnasse's bed that it would unnerve the thief a bit if Jehan didn't look just so damn cute.

Montparnasse takes another drag of his cigarette and breathes the smoke out of the window, turning back to glance over at Jehan. "When you came. You said something. Didn't catch it."

"Oh, I think it was Italian." Jehan snuggles deeper into the pillow.

"…didn't know you spoke Italian." Another drag. Montparnasse doesn't know why this pisses him off.

"Mmhmm. I was in love with this Italian boy once. Wanted to…sorry, wanted to write him something in his own language," Jehan yawns. "That's actually how I learned the others, too."

"Come again?" He finishes his cigarette and flicks the filter out of the window. "Others?"

"English, Italian, French, Spanish. The romance languages, and the current _lingua franca_."

This shouldn't piss him off. If Jehan's tendency to sing nonstop doesn't bother him, if Jehan's annoying ex-boyfriend Courfeyrac doesn't bother him (too much), if Jehan's need to look like a neon sign at all times doesn't bother him, then the fact that this lovely boy who writes poetry and wears flowers in his hair is so much smarter than he is definitely shouldn't. It's wrong to begrudge him for this, and Montparnasse knows this. But he can't stop the venomous thoughts once they're already there, so he just pretends that this revelation makes him want Jehan again, and they fall back into bed, vitriolic thoughts turned into anger that can be so easily mistaken for passion.


	17. Chapter 17

_Disclaimer: Not mine._

Montparnasse isn't sure which one of the Independents he hates the most.

Is it Grantaire, the drunk artist who, as far as he can tell, does nothing to contribute to the "cause" beyond spouting Camus and Sartre at every given opportunity, knocking things over in his inebriation, and making the most pathetic puppy dog eyes at the stupid blonde leader that, though he is loath to admit it to himself, reminds him of Eponine with her stupid schoolgirl crush on Pontmercy?

Is it Pontmercy himself, the posh little shit who goes around charming everyone, man and woman alike, with his freckles and seeming innocence, who uses Eponine as his errand girl simply because she's willing, who does nothing but argue with the rest of them, stating that the American Revolution was the worst thing to ever happen to the country, who sticks his tongue down his girlfriend's throat (and she isn't even that hot, he thinks, and gives her a six-point-five out of ten) in front of everyone, who drinks Natty Ice beer?

Is it Bahorel, the scruffy guy in the corner who doesn't say anything and acts tough, who thinks he's hot shit just because he's been to Occupy Wall Street protests, who talks all the time about how he skips so much class because he's such a badass, who has an entire closet full of plaid flannel shirts, corduroy pants, and beanies, as if he's ever needed working clothes a day in his life?

Is it Joly, the hypochondriac pussy who, half the time, wears a surgical mask, who refuses to drink after anyone, even his boyfriend and girlfriend, who rants about the need for the stigma regarding mental illness to disappear and then gets offended whenever anyone calls him OCD?

Is it Bossuet, Joly's boyfriend, who talks about his cancer all the time, as if surviving a cancer with a 90% survival rate is something that automatically makes you an awesome person, who refuses to grow his hair back out as a "statement," who says things like "Bald is Beautiful," who wears harem pants, who doesn't manage to go a single meeting without breaking something, who grins sheepishly as others clean up his mess, a perfect representation of all of these rich, pretentious asshats?

Is it Feuilly, who is oh so passionate about social work, who introduces himself to everyone as an orphan, who acts like he has some right to touch Eponine and to try and identify with her just because his parents died, who wears a stupid newsboy hat rain or shine, day or night, indoors or outdoors, who drinks cranberry juice with his vodka like a little bitch, who carries a fucking umbrella?

Is it Combeferre, that insufferable snob who hasn't never once deigned to say a word to him, who preaches about equality and about social conscience but won't even greet the vagabond in the back of the café, who wears sweater vests and button-downs, even on Saturdays, who acts like he's the authority on government and politics?

Is it Courfeyrac, oh, God, that arrogant bastard who struts around with a smirk on his face like he owns the fucking place, like everyone loves him, like he's hot shit, who has the stupidest fucking hair Montparnasse has ever seen, who wears V-neck shirts and pastel colors, who once texted Jehan asking him to go get tacos and showed up in a tailored suit with a bow tie, who can't get over the fact that Jehan chose Montparnasse over him, that Jehan gets fucked by Montparnasse now?

Or is it Enjolras, the "commander and chief" who wears entirely too much red, spends entirely too much time on his hair in the mornings, and who finds himself to be entirely more intelligent than he really is, who is rude and condescending, who orders everyone around like he's God and they're nothing, who wears organic clothes and those stupid shoes that everyone's wearing now, Toms, or whatever, who, when he first saw Montparnasse's arm around Jehan, whispered to Combeferre, "He can do better"?

It's all of them, and none of them, and Montparnasse hates going to these meetings, but he does it for Jehan, because it's important to him.

"The things I do for love…" he sighs as he walks into the lion's den for yet another meeting.


	18. Chapter 18

_If you haven't figured out the method behind my madness by now, I'll tell you: I post a new chapter every time I get a new follower or review, so if you want more chapters, reviews and critiques are the way to get there. I am very open to criticism; I welcome it._

_I'm also accepting prompts, ideas, requests, etc., because my muse is ill and fading fast. They don't have to be within the pairings that I've created for the sake of the story, but I'd like them to be as close as possible._

_Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine._

_This is my favorite thing I've written so far, and I hope you like it as much as I do._

When finals roll around, there's a noticeable shift in Grantaire. He spends less time at meetings, consumes less alcohol, and makes a very specialized shopping trip: he buys several boxes of instant mashed potatoes, several 5-Hour Energies, and several packages of instant coffee. He will drink the energy drinks, and the instant coffee will be eaten with a spoon.

Grantaire disappears for a few days, listening to nothing but Iron & Wine and Florence + the Machine nonstop at earsplitting volumes (everyone is surprised that no neighbors complain), accompanied by the odd sound of glass breaking or shouting; such is the symphony of the artist.

Courfeyrac, Joly, Enjolras, and Eponine take turns checking on him, and it's Enjolras's turn when he finally emerges from his room, covered in paint and looking like he hasn't showered in a few days. He definitely _smells _like he hasn't showered in a few days.

"So how is it coming along?" Enjolras asks, gesturing to the closed door leading to Grantaire's room that serves a double function as his studio.

"Finished," Grantaire mumbles through a mouthful of potatoes with instant coffee crystals sprinkled on top. Enjolras tries not to gag.

"May I see?" Grantaire freezes before shaking his head. "Why not? I already know the subject matter." He had mentioned the day before he disappeared into his studio that he would be painting the Independents.

"'S'weird," he finally says, rubbing a hand against his unshaven jaw.

"I wanna see," Enjolras whines a bit. Something about Grantaire's paintings captivates him on a level that rivals that of even activism. It's an incredibly important part of his life and his friendship with the other man ("Are you drawing me?" the blonde man asks the barista indignantly. "Does it bother you?" he fires back.), and several of Grantaire's paintings hang in Enjolras's room.

"I'm telling you, it's really weird."

"I like weird."

He sighs and slides back his chair. "Don't say I didn't warn you." He moves to his room, opens the door, and steps aside to allow Enjolras first entrance.

Enjolras's first thought is that it's a photograph; he has to remind himself that it's a painting. He is the central figure, wearing a red jacket and shredded black pants, perched on top of what he immediately recognizes as Eponine's beaten-up black Impala with a snarl on his face. The look in his eyes frightens him; the blaze in them, combined with the wildness of his hair, makes him look like an ancient revolutionary.

To his right is Combeferre, holding an American flag aloft in his right hand, glasses cracked and usually well-groomed hair an ebony tangle, his expression dangerous.

On his other side is Courfeyrac, a wicked smirk on his face that seems to suggest at and invite mischief, clad in a black velvet coat over his bare chest and pants with the design of the American flag on them; he holds a red flag in his left hand, his brown hair in its usual perfect disarray.

On the ground is Feuilly, his red hair vibrant and blazing, holding two cans of spray paint in the air; the painting captures him in mid-spray, the two colors (red and black) frozen; his mouth is held in defiant determination.

To his left is Joly, wearing a surgical mask, holding the right corner of a large canvas sign that reads "Vive la revolution!"

On the other side of Joly is Bossuet, bald head gleaming insolently, mouth open in a rebel yell, holding the center of the sign.

Bahorel, hair tied back in a ponytail, glaring at the viewer, holds the other corner of the sign, shirtless and painted the recurring colors of red and black; his expression makes Enjolras want to crawl back until he can no longer see those features screwed up in disgust and anger.

To his left, Eponine stands, wearing her black greatcoat and combat boots, fist thrust in the air, eyes stormy and dangerous, hair in an untamed tangle; everything about her looks like a feral wolf.

Pontmercy is turned away.

All around, in the background, there are faceless people, holding signs with words that Enjolras cannot read, rioting.

Enjolras doesn't speak, just moves closer to the enormous canvas, easily his height and twice his width. The painting is the most beautiful and terrifying thing he has ever seen.

When he finally speaks, instead of saying what he should say, like, "This is amazing," or "Grantaire, this painting makes me question my asexuality. I want to fornicate with this painting," he says, "You're not there?"

Grantaire ducks his head and mumbles something about not liking to paint himself.

There's no need for Enjolras to know that Grantaire has never seen himself as truly belonging to the Independents and their revolution.


	19. Chapter 19

_You guys are so sweet. Your kind words mean so much to me, and I'm really glad that you like the story. The two 'prompts' I've gotten so far will both be done, and I'm working on them right now. _

_In the meantime, enjoy!_

_I'm not sure if I'm happy with this, but I wanted to give you guys something as a thank you for reviewing and reading while I finish the prompts I'm working on._

_Disclaimer: They have been disclaimed._

When Eponine and Montparnasse see each other at meetings, they pretend that they don't know each other. He sits in the back of the café by Jehan and she sits near the front with Marius when Cosette isn't there or with Grantaire when she is. They pretend that they don't catch each other sneaking looks.

It's only after, once everyone has left, except Jehan, who's in the bathroom, and Grantaire, who's passed out on a table, that they exchange their usual pleasantries.

"'Ponine."

"'Parnasse."

"What are you still doing here? Don't you have rich schoolboys to stalk?"

"What are _you _still doing here? Don't you have innocent poets to defile?"

"So…tonight?"

"Tonight."

Jehan emerges from the bathroom, and the two boys leave together. Eponine sighs and turns to her best friend, using all her strength to get him up, finally resulting to dragging him to her car.

Later that night, once she's put Grantaire to bed, kissed him goodnight, and made sure that there is a glass of water and two Advil on her bedside table where he could reach it once he'd awoken, she sneaks out.

She meets 'Parnasse at their usual rendezvous point, and he hands her the small bag of white powder. "Thanks," she whispers.

He nods. "I love you." He wants to kiss her, but he doesn't, because he's staying faithful to Jehan for some reason.

"Love you, too." She wants to kiss him, but she doesn't, because she loves Jehan and doesn't want to hurt him.

They both walk away.


	20. Chapter 20

_Okay, sorry for how much the last chapter sucked. _

_Disclaimer: I own nothing except this laptop._

When Marius first announces that he is dating Cosette, Eponine doesn't worry too much. Marius is always chasing some hot piece of ass, and it never lasts too long. He always comes back to her. But when two months becomes six months, and six months becomes a year, Eponine loses sight of that.

"Guys, guys, guys, guess what?" Cosette says, eyes flashing and face flushed. "Today, Marius and I have been dating for one year!" The Independents applaud, though Grantaire and Jehan both give Eponine worried looks.

"That's truly excellent, Cosette, now please get down from that table. We have a country to save." Eponine could kiss Enjolras. "Now, did anyone see the State of the Union address last night?"

Eponine finds Grantaire smoking by her car at the end of the night. "Hey…you okay?"

He laughs. "Why wouldn't I be? This isn't the first time he's kicked me out for being me, and it won't be the last."

She opens her arms and gives him a hug. They stay like this for a while, with him trying not to cry while saying things like, "It's always like this," and "I'm such a fuck-up," and Eponine murmuring reassuring sentiments into his ear.

They drive home in silence until Grantaire can bear it no more and turns on the radio. "She Will Be Loved" by Maroon 5 plays, and Eponine flinches as Grantaire loses it. He's sobbing into his hands, and it's painful to listen to. Eponine tries to focus on the road and her friend at the same time; luckily, they are almost home.

When they finally get upstairs to their flat, Grantaire has stopped crying, though his face is still red and wet. "Jesus, I can't believe you're putting up with me right now, 'Ponine. I should be comforting you."

She sighs. "I'm used to it. There's always going to be another girl, and it's never going to be me, and Marius is never going to see me. How could he? I'm a skinny whore who takes his messages for him, and who fucks him when he's lonely. That's it." She sits down on the couch.

"No." The sheer force of Grantaire's voice makes her jump. "No, that's not it. You are not that, Eponine. You're so much more than that. Pontmercy is an idiot. Any of the Independents would kill for a chance with you. 'Ponine, you have to realize that you don't see yourself properly. You're insanely sweet, and you're so kind, and you're so _incredibly _beautiful." He realizes as he says it that, yes, she is beautiful, with her big brown eyes glistening with unshed tears, her soft, dark hair that smells like strawberries, and her delicate cheekbones. He sits down beside her.

She smiles, but there's no feeling behind it. She doesn't believe him. "Thanks, 'Taire."

"I mean it," he says again. When she sighs and doesn't answer, he kisses her, putting all of his gratitude and fierce admiration into the movement of his lips.

They've kissed before, they kiss frequently, but it's nothing like this. Grantaire's lips are rough and warm, searing her cold face, and maybe it's because they're both so lonely, maybe it's because neither of them are drunk enough to deal with themselves, but she kisses him back, and she closes her eyes and pretends that it's Marius, and he knows, and she knows that he's closing his eyes and pretending that she's Enjolras, and neither of them mind.

He breaks away long enough to caress her face in his rough artist's hands and whisper how beautiful she is before he kisses her again, and again, and again, tasting every inch of her face, kissing away her tears. She's so overcome with emotion at finally feeling loved, wanted, _beautiful_, that she throws her leg over his waist, straddling him, and kisses him the way she kisses Marius when he calls, the way she kisses Montparnasse when she's too high to realize what she's doing; Grantaire may be her best friend, and he may be in love with Enjolras, but he is not a saint, and he is not immune to be kissed like she's kissing him, as if he conveys something holy and delicious.

He stands up, wrapping one arm under Eponine and one around her waist to support her weight as she reflexively curls her legs around him, and moves towards their room. He lays her down on their bed, kissing her hard before pulling his shirt off. She runs her hands down his chest, tracing the trail of hair that leads beneath his jeans, and lifts her arms so that he can pull off her shirt, which he does, tossing it to the floor.

She sits up, shifting her position and pushing him down so that she's in control, and reaches around her back to unclasp her bralette, leaning down to kiss Grantaire again as she does so. She doesn't know what's gotten into her, but her closest explanation is that she's highly intoxicated off of Grantaire, off of his dark curls, his soft lips, his calloused hands, his scruffy jaw, his sweet words, his incredible capacity to love.

They drink deeply of one another's love and loneliness until very late at night, and when they finally collapse, it's after declarations of love and confirmations that nothing has changed. Eponine drifts into sleep, imagining that the man beneath her who had told her he loved her, who had told her how beautiful she was, who had kissed her with such gentleness and loved her with such tenderness was Marius Pontmercy. Grantaire finally succumbs to sleep's charm much later, dreaming that Enjolras passes by him and smiles. It's the happiest and best they've slept in months.


	21. Chapter 21

_I'm really sorry this took a few days, but I went to see _Billy Elliot _one night, and then I had a major psychology project due, and I wanted to be as canon as possible with what some people argue is a non-canon ship._

_Also, Thank you all for your very kind words. It really made my day. This is an answer to another 'prompt,' as well as a piece that I was inspired to write after hearing that France had legalized gay marriage._

_Disclaimer: Not my characters. I am also not male, so if there are any inaccuracies in this chapter, please forgive me._

They are at the Musain, Jehan braiding Cosette's hair, Grantaire and Eponine sharing a bottle of wine, Feuilly showing Bahorel his new tattoo ("See? It's Poland's flag?" "…"), and Courfeyrac shamelessly flirting with Enjolras, who looks annoyed, when Combeferre bursts in, Macbook tucked carefully under his arm. "Have you heard? France just legalized gay marriage?"

"…you're kidding," Enjolras says, closing his copy of _The Republic_ and standing up. The look on his face makes Grantaire's heart ache.

"Never." Combeferre grins, glasses slightly askew from his mad dash to the café.

As soon as the news is confirmed, Enjolras grabs the face of the person seated nearest to him and kisses him on the lips; in this case, it's Courfeyrac, seated across the table from him. The shorter boy squirms a bit, before kissing him back, tangling his fingers idly in Enjolras's blond curls; Enjolras pushes him away. "That…Courf. Just a celebratory impulse."

Courfeyrac grins impishly. "Can't blame me for trying, though, can you, boss?"

"Don't call me that." Everyone is gaping at him, and Enjolras blushes so violently that Joly thinks he might have broken a blood vessel. He glances around the room, eyes settling on Grantaire, whose mouth is open in shock. Enjolras isn't very good at reading emotions, but the pain is so openly plain on his friend's face that he feels it himself for a moment. "Grantaire…" Grantaire gets up and walks out, Eponine standing up to follow him. Enjolras catches her shoulder. "Allow me?" She sighs and gestures for him to follow, which Enjolras does.

"Grantaire!" he calls, but the smaller man, surprisingly quick on his feet for his level of inebriation, has already walked outside. Enjolras opens the door and follows. Grantaire is faced towards him, lighting a cigarette, but turns away when he sees who it is. "Grantaire."

"What is it, Apollo?" he says in a voice like the Sahara.

"What's wrong?" He instantly knows that it's the wrong thing to say, but he's already said it, and, as his father once told him, words are like bullets, you can't take either back once they're out there.

"Nothing's wrong. Go back inside. Eat, drink, and be merry. 'A huge victory has been won today against injustice and ignorance,'" he says in a mocking tone, still facing away from the door. Enjolras recognizes his own words from months ago, and he's surprised that Grantaire can quote him. He didn't think the other man listened.

"Is it that I kissed Courfeyrac?" Grantaire stiffens. "I thought so. It was just an impulse, Grantaire. A victory lap, if you will. If Pontmercy had been sitting across that table, I would have kissed him. If it had been Eponine, I'd have kissed her. If it had been you, I would have kissed you." Grantaire sighs and flicks his cigarette. "What?"

"Apollo, for someone who is as dazzlingly brilliant as you, you can be awful fucking stupid sometimes."

"That's very hurtful," Enjolras says honestly.

"Yeah, well, it shouldn't be. It's just a fact."

"How am I stupid?" Enjolras has always prided himself on his intellect, and he's a bit confused as to his stupidity now.

Grantaire turned around, dark curls disheveled from the light drizzle that had begun. "You really have no idea, do you?" His dark eyes are filled with astonishment.

"Grantaire, I really don't know what you're—" He's cut off by Grantaire's mouth. Stunned to the point of immobility, he just stands there, being kissed.

Grantaire pulls away. "That. That has been going on for years, Apollo, and you've not noticed it? I find that very hard to believe." With that, he goes back into the café.

It's around midnight when Grantaire's phone begins buzzing on the bedside table. He wakes up to Eponine shoving it in his face, saying, "Deal with this," before rolling over and going back to sleep. Bleary-eyed, he stares at the screen until it starts to make sense to his groggy brain; it's a message from Enjolras. Grantaire blinks twice, fights the urge to pinch himself, and pulls the sheets off of him.

"Whassgoinon?" Eponine mumbles, sliding her arms under her pillow and turning onto her stomach.

"I'm going out. Be back soon," he whispers in what he hopes is a reassuring tone.

"'kay." Looks like it worked, he thinks.

He slides on a pair of jeans, pulls on a random T-shirt, and grabs the Converse by the door before slipping out of his apartment and into the night.

When Grantaire finally arrives at Enjolras's (what was a five-minute drive was an exhaustingly long walk, as he was in no shape to be driving), it's very late, or very early depending on your viewpoint. He sends a quick text letting him know that he's coming up; hopefully they won't wake up Combeferre and Courfeyrac, though from the tone of the text, it seemed urgent, and maybe they're already awake. Still, it can't hurt to be certain.

He raises an arm to knock on the door, but it's opened before he gets the chance. His mouth runs dry. Enjolras is standing in the doorframe, wearing only a pair of boxer briefs, blonde curls in disarray. Grantaire is suddenly grateful that he pulled on jeans instead of sweatpants.

"Hey," his Apollo whispers, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard, which is stupid to think, but he does anyway.

"Hey," he whispers back, unconsciously running a hand through his thick curls, a nervous habit of his that Enjolras didn't fail to notice.

"Courfeyrac is out, but Combeferre is trying to sleep. We can go to my room." These words are like torture to Grantaire, who is still very drunk and still very much trying not to frighten his Apollo off with inappropriate advances. He nods and follows Enjolras to his room, the second door on the left of the hallway leading to the small kitchenette.

"So what did you need? It sounded pretty urgent," Grantaire says softly once they're in Enjolras's room.

"I wouldn't say urgent, but I definitely thought it might be of interest to you." He closes the door and turns to face the dark-haired man who is standing by his bed. "Sit." Grantaire does as he's told. "As you may have known, Grantaire, I identify as asexual."

He wonders if this is some torture from the next world for his insouciance and recklessness.

"But, given events from earlier tonight, I'd like to propose an experiment."

Grantaire's brain is entirely too intoxicated to understand what's happening until Enjolras presses his lips against his. He doesn't realize that he hasn't kissed him back until the blonde man pulls away, a look of disappointment on his face. Terrified of losing him forever, Grantaire leans forward, almost toppling to the ground in the process, and catches his Apollo's lips with his own. They kiss carefully, tentatively; both are afraid of upsetting the other. When they finally break away, unfulfilled, Grantaire searches Enjolras's eyes for an answer.

"So…thoughts?"

Enjolras purses his lips. "Interesting. Very interesting. Perhaps…" He kisses him again, lips moving a bit differently, tongue brushing Grantaire's lip, before pulling back again. "Hmm. Just as I suspected."

"Which is?"

"I'd really like for you to take your clothes off."

"What?" Grantaire splutters.

"Not tonight. But definitely in the future." The look on Enjolras's face is something akin to self-satisfaction at seeing Grantaire's face turn red and his jeans become visibly uncomfortable.

Though nothing happens that night, other than the odd kiss and caress, the two men both know that something has changed between them, and the two men fall asleep in one another's arms, cheeks rosy and lips blushing, looking forward to the world in which they would awaken as somewhat tentative lovers.


	22. Chapter 22

_This is a response to a prompt; thank you so much for reviewing!_

_Disclaimer: If I owned any of the barricade boys, I would spend my time with them nonstop and never post fanfiction. Sorry, but true._

Strangely enough, it wasn't Marius who brought Eponine to the Independents, and it wasn't Grantaire. It was Courfeyrac. When Gavroche asks to hear the story, Eponine turns bright red and covers his ears the second Courfeyrac opens his mouth, and the subject is dropped. However, a few months later, Musichetta has a little too much scotch and suggests they play Truth or Dare (apparently she was deprived of all the bitchy slumber party mayhem when she was in high school), and the first thing Gavroche does is ask again.

"Well…" Courfeyrac pauses, unsure of how to begin.

"Courf, shut up." Eponine's face is slowly turning the color of the hoodie she's wearing, a very unflattering shade of vermillion.

"'Ponine, darling, I'm not going to lose the game just because you're a little squeamish," he says patiently. "Now, let's see. So, I was at this sleazy bar over on Sullivan Street called Corinthe—"

"That's where 'Ponine works!"

"Yes it is, my son. I was chatting up this foxy guy with glasses…"

"Courf, you were trying to chat _me _up. Unsuccessfully, I might add," Combeferre interrupts, not amused.

"As I was saying. I was _successfully _chatting up Combeferre, and I noticed this fine-ass waitress—spoiler alert, guys, by the way, that's Eponine—and I just had to go say hello."

"When he says, 'say hello,' what he means is, 'puke all over me.'" Eponine wrinkles her nose at the memory as Musichetta gags and Gavroche laughs.

"No!"

"Yes," the two say simultaneously, Courfeyrac proud and Eponine deadpan.

"No wonder you didn't wanna tell this story, 'Ponine!" Gavroche laughs again, totally amused by the idea of Courfeyrac throwing up all over his sister.

"The best part is—"

"Shut _up_, Courf."

"I'm not done telling my story!"

"Courf. Shut it."

"The best part is, she still slept with me after!" Gavroche stops laughing, looking like he can't decide whether to be more grossed out with Eponine or Courfeyrac.

"Courfeyrac. I cannot believe that you just told my _little brother_ that I slept with you."

"I can't believe you slept with Courfeyrac," Grantaire sniggers.

"Shut it, you."

Later, when it's Gavroche's turn again, he dares Eponine to kiss Courfeyrac, clearly over his earlier revulsion, impish grin spread across his face. "You are evil," hisses Eponine as she attempt to walk on her knees over to where Courfeyrac is sitting.

When she kisses Courfeyrac, however, neither of them pulls away until the catcalls and wolf whistles have subsided, and Gavroche looks significantly less pleased with himself; the sight of his sister's mouth melding with Courfeyrac's is a sight he could have lived without seeing.

"Yep," Courfeyrac says after they finally separate. "I still got it." Eponine smacks him, but when he grabs her hand playfully, she doesn't let go.


	23. Chapter 23

_Okay, so this chapter is super serious, and I dunno how it even happened, but I'm sorry and not at the same time, and I did all this research into the subject matter, and that's why it took a few days. Love you guys; keep the criticism coming, please._

_Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Story mine._

Eponine opens her eyes and immediately shuts them again; she is surrounded by blinding amounts of white. She blinks twice, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar environment, and hears a sigh of relief coming from her right. She tries to turn her head to see who it is, but there's something in her nose that won't let her. "Thank God, 'Ponine!" Grantaire's face swims into view; she doesn't know how it's possible for someone to look both ecstatic and furious, but trust Grantaire to be able to do it.

"Pardon the cliché, but where am I?" she croaks out. She sounds about how she feels.

"Hospital. Eponine Thérnadier, do you have any clue what you've put us through?"

"To be honest, no. What happened? I remember…we had a meeting…and I…well, I went to meet Montparnasse to…oh, God. Grantaire, what did I do?" she asks frantically, praying that it's not the answer that she thinks it is, or else she'll never forgive herself.

"You OD'd on coke. Montparnasse called me, and, by the time I got there, he was gone. 'Ponine…how long was that going on?" he asks gently.

She sighs. "A few months. It wasn't frequent…just whenever I really needed to not be Eponine for a while."

"That's bullshit. You almost died."

"Really, R, because I'm pretty sure you do the exact same thing with alcohol," she snaps, and it makes her head hurt. Grantaire sighs and glances over at the heart monitor which has sped up a little.

"I'm supposed to not be upsetting you. Good job, right? I didn't mean to be accusatory. Just…we were all really worried about you."

"Does Gavroche know?"

"Of course he knows, 'Ponine. We weren't not gonna tell him that his sister almost died."

"Fair enough," she sighs. "Has…he visited?"

Grantaire knows who she's talking about. "He came once, with everyone else," he tells her reluctantly, shaking his head when her face lights up. "'Ponine."

"I know. I'm pathetic. But it's okay, because he came to see me. He cares about me."

Grantaire shakes his head again. "Such a feminist, and yet so co-dependent."

"I thought you weren't supposed to be upsetting me," she reminds him, wincing at the pain in her head. "When do I get to leave?"

"You had to stay until you woke up, which is now, and I think they mentioned a psychological evaluation?"

She groans. "Grantaire. This is ridiculous. I'm not a coke addict."

"Aren't you?" he sounds genuinely concerned.

"No! I'm not! It happened like all of four times!"

"Okay, okay, I believe you, calm down, or else the nurses will kick me out."

"Eponine!" Jehan walks through the doorway. "You're awake!" He looks wonderful, but gaunt, his dirty blonde tresses unwashed and sloppily braided, his duck-print sweater crumpled and unwashed, his bright teal pants wrinkled. Courfeyrac walks in behind him, looking equally disheveled, with dark shadows under his eyes.

"God, you had us worried, 'Ponine." He walks up to her, squeezes her hand, and bends over to plant a kiss on her forehead, which does little to no good for her headache. "Wanna tell us what happened?"

"Montparnasse happened," Eponine answers gravely, and Jehan goes even paler, if that's possible.

Enjolras and Combeferre walk in. "Joly sends his apologies for not coming, but, and I quote, 'do you even know how many people get sick in hospitals?,' so I doubt we'll be seeing him for a few days," Combeferre explains, shaking his head in mild disbelief.

"Only three guests at a time." A large woman with red hair wearing scrubs and carrying a clipboard walks into the room, looking distastefully at all the boys. "And only family." Everyone but Grantaire walks out, grumbling about erroneous hospital rules and the lack of vending machines on this floor. "Are you family, sir?"

"He's my brother," Eponine says without thinking. The nurse looks back and forth between them, taking in Eponine's chestnut hair and Grantaire's black curls, the difference in their complexions, a complete lack of resemblance, but, to her credit, says nothing of it.

After the check-up, with Eponine reassuring the nurse that she's fine, that she feels fine, that she just wants to wear her own clothes again, Eponine leaves to talk to Dr. Schacter, the resident psychologist, and Grantaire walks out to the waiting room where Courfeyrac, Jehan, Enjolras, and Combeferre are sipping coffee and whispering quietly. "Hey, guys."

They all look up. "How is she?" Jehan asks.

Grantaire sighs and runs a hand over his beanie, straightening it. "She's putting on a brave face, but I think she scared herself even more than she scared us. She's really ashamed that Gavroche knows, and she's really afraid of what's going to happen. She doesn't wanna go to rehab for it, y'know?"

They're all silent, as they've mostly been for the past twenty-four hours. This is the first time anyone in their group has truly been close to dying, and it's terrifying, especially since it's Eponine, whom they all adore. She means something special to all of them.

"Hey, guys!" Feuilly runs up, out of breath, wearing his trademark newsboy hat, with his messenger bag slung across his torso. "What's happening? Is she okay?"

"She's awake. After this stupid psychological evaluation thing, she can go," Courfeyrac explains. Combeferre hands Feuilly a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

"Thanks, 'Ferre. God. I wanted to come over as soon as you called, but I had work and class, and I couldn't just drop it…I feel awful," Feuilly babbles slightly incoherently.

"Feuilly. Breathe."

He inhales and exhales exaggeratedly. "Thanks."

Combeferre smiles without feeling. "Don't mention it."

They sit there like that for about an hour, Grantaire dying for a cigarette, Enjolras trying to figure out whether or not he should hold Grantaire's hand, Courfeyrac about to burst from trying not to comment on the sexual tension that has sprung up seemingly overnight between his two friends, Combeferre reading an article about artificial insemination, and Feuilly tying and retying his shoelaces, a nervous habit. Finally, Eponine emerges from the back of the hospital wearing a pair of worn jeans and an old T-shirt of Courfeyrac's that she borrowed and never returned that Grantaire had brought her. "Hey."

"Hey," they all murmur.

"Good news is, no rehab," she says, trying to force a smile.

"Bad news?" Combeferre stands up.

"I mean, I OD'd on cocaine, so that's pretty much all the bad news necessary, right?"

Grantaire chuckles. "C'mere." He holds his arms open and Eponine throws her arms around him, breathing in his familiar smell of sweat, cigarettes, and Old Spice Fiji. "Love you, 'Ponine, and we're gonna be here for you always, okay?" They hold each other for a while before he finally lets her go, and as soon as he does, she's instantly pulled into a hug from Jehan.

It's now that she starts silently crying as Jehan pats her hair and whispers soothingly into her ear, "We're here for you, baby, and Montparnasse is not coming anywhere near you ever again."

When her hug with Jehan is done, Courfeyrac presses a kiss to her forehead and grips her chin to make her look up at his face. "You ever need anything, 'Ponine, I'm here. You're gonna get through this." She's no longer silent-crying now, it's become shaky sobbing, and other patients are glaring, but none of them care.

Combeferre takes her hand, squeezes it reassuringly, and kisses it, like some sort of bespectacled Prince Charming. Enjolras just looks at her, and she can read all that she needs from him in his eyes. It's a wonderful gift they have, being able to communicate through glances.

She turns to Feuilly, who she can tell is trying very hard to be manly and tough, but when she hugs him, he starts shaking. "I was so terrified that we'd lost you, 'Ponine. I didn't know what to do."

When she finally pulls away, she looks at all her boys, not failing to notice that Marius is not among them, which she tucks away for a day when she's feeling good about herself, and she tries to break the silence. "I'm starving. Does anyone want tacos?"

Feuilly grabs her hand as they walk down the stairs outside the hospital, and she leans over and kisses his cheek; he blushes, and she wonders how she never noticed that before. Maybe it would be good to be around someone who didn't encourage her excess like Montparnasse or Grantaire did. It didn't matter anyway; she was getting ahead of herself. Right now, she's just happy to be alive; however, she can't help but feel that she met a new side of herself in this process, and she's afraid of what that new side could grow to become. She most certainly is unwelcome in her life, she thinks to herself, and relays her Taco Bell order to Grantaire.


	24. Chapter 24

_Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed; you are all my muses, and I dedicate this delicious piece of fluff to you._

_Disclaimer: I want them. But, alas. _

When he gets home, Enjolras hears giggling and Prouvaire's soft, lilting voice reciting something that he can't immediately identify. It's coming from the balcony, and when he slides open the glass door, he finds Jehan, in nothing but a pair of white boxer briefs, and Eponine, wearing a sports bra and a pair of white panties. On the white wicker table between them is a glass mixing bowl filled with what looks like teal hair dye, a glass bottle of a champagne-colored liquid, an ashtray with two cigarette butts, and a pack of yellow Spirits. Eponine has her feet in Jehan's lap, smoking what appears to be her third cigarette, and is alternating between laughing and listening intently to Jehan's recitation of what Enjolras finally places to be Allen Ginsberg's "Howl." The tail of Jehan's braid is now teal, as are the tips of Eponine's fingers.

"'Jolras! Come join us!" Eponine looks so happy, so unburdened, and it's enough to make Enjolras put aside the immense load of philosophy homework he has due the next day to pull out another chair to join Jehan and Eponine in their lovely spring afternoon. Eponine pours him a glass of the liquid and after tasting it, he realizes that it's not champagne at all, but white grape juice, crisp, cold, and sweet. The sun is warm on his face, and he follows the example of his friends and pulls off his cotton T-shirt. They giggle and applaud.

"Now, where was I?" Jehan wonders idly, running his thumb across the pad of Eponine's left foot.

"'Who bit detectives in the neck,'" prompted Eponine, taking a drag of her cigarette and using her free hand to take hold of Enjolras's, smiling up at him.

"Ah, yes. We're getting to the good bits. 'Who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in police cars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication…'" Jehan has a good voice for reading poetry, Enjolras thinks, and takes a sip of the juice. He can feel his skin soaking up the sun, and it's the most relaxed he's felt in a while. "'…who howled on their knees,' see, Eponine, it's the title of the poem, told you it was relevant eventually, 'in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts/who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy/who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love—'"

"That's a lovely line," Eponine interrupts, taking a sip of the grape juice. "'Caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love.' Gorgeous."

"Isn't it? Some perceive Ginsberg as crude, but some of the lines he writes are just as lyric and elevated as anything Milton or Shelley wrote." Jehan can see that he's losing Eponine with this, who is not an English major and knows very little about eighteenth- and nineteenth-century British poetry. "'…who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may…'"

"I dunno," Enjolras cuts him off. "That's pretty crude."

"Well, you know what, Mr. Political Science Major? Almost everything brilliant and wonderful has, at one time or another, been deemed crude." Jehan seems prepared to defend his Beats until the death.

"Like, for example?"

"Well, sex. For example. But in the literary world, we have Shakespeare, Byron, Whitman…"

"I'm not denying its literary merit. Just commenting that it is, actually, decently crude," Enjolras grins at Jehan. "You're fearsome when you have a point to prove."

"Allen Ginsberg is my spirit animal," Jehan says with a toss of his head that attempts to be proud and ends up just being adorable. "Besides, if you think that's bad, wait for the next few stanzas. We get the phrase, 'copulated ecstatic and insatiate,' and, 'sweetened the snatches,' and 'cocksman and Adonis of Denver,'…"

Enjolras laughs. "I think I get the point, Jehan. Can we skip some? I like the part about Moloch."

"You're insane," interjects Eponine. "That part terrifies me. It's like I can hear him shouting at me, warning me."

"You _were _paying attention!" Jehan cries gleefully, freckled face turning up into a fierce smile.

"Well, don't tell anyone; I have a reputation to uphold."

They're so busy bantering and laughing, smoking and sipping grape juice that they don't notice when Courfeyrac comes home; when the glass door slides open, they jump a bit. "So…are we all just getting naked? And no one thought to invite me?"

Jehan laughs. "You certainly may join." Courfeyrac sets down his bag, unbuttons his shirt but doesn't remove it completely, and pulls up a chair so that he's sitting next to Jehan and facing Eponine. Enjolras and Eponine both notice when Courfeyrac puts his hand on Jehan's knee, but neither of them comment. They say to themselves that they'll bring it up later, but change their minds immediately when Courfeyrac leans over and plants a kiss on the smaller boy's lips.

"By the way," Courfeyrac says once he's surfaced from Jehan's kiss, "we're dating." He takes Eponine's pack of cigarettes, removes one, replaces the pack, puts the cigarette between his lips, lights it, and inhales. "And now that he's dated Montparnasse, who lights up, y'know, every seven seconds, he can't bitch at me about bumming 'Ponine's cigs every now and again." Jehan shakes his head, smiling, not even able to fake being angry with Courfeyrac, the boy with whom he's been in love since he first saw him.

Years later, when it's all over, all four of them look back on this afternoon as one of the loveliest ones of their youth. The elegant simplicity of it, four friends in their underwear, smoking, drinking grape juice, reciting poetry, making pretentious remarks, dyeing their hair, massaging each other's feet, sharing kisses, soaking up warmth and light and beauty, imprints the memory so deeply that they each remember it for the rest of their lives.


	25. Chapter 25

_Thanks so much to everyone who has reviewed so far and favorited this, and followed it, and, holy crap, I didn't think anyone liked what I wrote. I love you all. It's the highlight of my day to see notifications in my email from you guys._

_Disclaimer: I think this is going to be the last disclaimer, just because there's only so many ways one can say "I am writing about characters that are not mine."_

When Feuilly gets his acceptance letter from the university, the Independents decide to throw a party the likes of which they have not seen before. Grantaire pools in his remarkable supply of liquor, Eponine promises the best supply of weed they've ever had (though how she'll get it, no one's sure; her dealer was Montparnasse, and they've been very careful to not let her around him after what happened two months ago), Enjolras reluctantly agrees to not mention a single word about activism or politics for the entire time, Courfeyrac swears that he won't bring people they don't know, Combeferre agrees to plan it, Joly decides to supply the food (which will be prepared by him and Jehan, wearing hypoallergenic gloves that will be removed every ten minutes), Bossuet promises to stay away from anything breakable, Bahorel agrees to watch his drinking so that he doesn't end up picking a fight with a lamppost (which has happened), and Cosette swears to make a mix of music that won't include a single mushy love song that Pontmercy has written her. It's truly a collaboration of efforts, and Feuilly has never felt more grateful.

The morning after, they all wake up in a pile in Enjolras's and Courfeyrac's living room; Courfeyrac and Jehan are bundled up together under a Snuggie with the design of Vincent van Gogh's "Starry Night" on it, Combeferre and Bahorel are in the corner with their heads on each other's shoulders, Combeferre's spectacles dangling precariously from the precipice of his nose, Marius has his arm around Cosette, who is asleep on his chest, Eponine and Feuilly are entwined (Feuilly awakens to the smell of Eponine's hair, which smells like peppermint), Joly has his head on Musichetta's stomach, who in turn has her head on Bossuet's, and, though no one immediately remembers why, Enjolras and Grantaire are sharing the couch, their arms wrapped around each other.

They attempt to piece together the night in snippets.

"Okay, guys," Combeferre says, rolling his head around to try and crack his neck in an attempt to alleviate the pressure he can feel on it, "who remembers anything about what happened last night?"

"My head is killing me, so it must've been hella good," Courfeyrac says, not bothering to untangle himself and Jehan from the Snuggie, choosing instead to stroke Jehan's knotted hair. "Speaking of, water, anyone?" Everyone makes affirmative noises, and Enjolras, playing the willing host, scurries off to go fetch water and painkillers.

"I remember…at one point, Cosette played 'Ain't No Rest for the Wicked,' and then I vomited. I think," Bahorel offers. "Damn. Haven't gotten that blackout drunk in years."

"I vaguely remember Courfeyrac making dying whale noises," Jehan says, "but I thought they were adorable…so we went to his room…"

"You can stop right there," Eponine says, rubbing her temples. "I think we can guess the rest."

"Sorry."

"You're always welcome to join, 'Ponine," Courfeyrac winks. Eponine rolls her eyes, which hurts her head even more.

"I remember…at one point Joly walked up to me and asked if I thought that belly buttons scream when we put shirts on because they're afraid of the dark, so I'm using that to infer that 'Ponine's weed was as good as she said it would be," Bossuet says. "Though that may have just been Joly trying to get me to take my shirt off."

"I think…did we…?" Feuilly turns to look at Eponine.

"I honestly can't remember," she lies, because she can't deal with herself or what happened last night right now. Maybe when she's not hungover, she'll sit down with Grantaire and Jehan and discuss what happened, but not now, and not here, in front of everyone.

"Maybe not. I really don't know what happened," he allows.

"Can we talk about the elephant in the room, please?" Eponine asks, changing the subject to one she cared much more about. "Um, Enjolras and R looking _very _couple-y over there on the couch?"

Grantaire's face lights up. "I don't kiss and tell." He is met with a barrage of complaints and protestations. "I don't. This is for me." Because Grantaire has been waiting so long for something to happen here, they drop it, but Eponine makes a mental note to pester him about it later.

"Water, everyone!" Enjolras is holding a tray of what looks like a gazillion glasses of water and a small bottle of Ibuprofen. "Take two and drink the whole glass. But do not hurl on my carpet, or I swear to God, you will be cleaning it up, and you will be on Grantaire-sitting duty the entirety of finals next year." Everyone laughs as best they can without aggravating their hangovers and follows his orders. Joly heads to the bathroom, positive of his impending vomit, and Bossuet follows for moral support.

They all conclude that the party was the best thing that had ever happened to them; they wake up Marius and Cosette, who have somehow slept through all this hullaballoo, and they all head home once they can open their eyes without crying. Grantaire and Jehan remain, and they both disappear into the bedrooms of the various owners.

Later, when Feuilly is home in the small flat he shares with Bahorel, he finds an envelope addressed to him from the university. Positive that it's his scholarship offer, he opens it. Bahorel finds him sobbing.

Later that night, once everyone has sufficiently recovered, they are all summoned for a meeting. "I…well. I'm not going to the university next year," Feuilly says, face blank and expressionless, eyes dead. "They didn't offer any financial aid or scholarships, and I refuse to take out student loans." Courfeyrac tells him not to be stubborn, Enjolras gives him a look of pride, Eponine squeezes his hand in solidarity, but Feuilly has made up his mind.

That night, he drinks more than he did the last night, and though in his drunkenness, he is in a state of lucidity ("so that's what happened last night"), he is also so incredibly sad. He fires up his laptop, writes a drunken email to his Polish pen pal, looks up ways to kill himself, but closes the page before it loads. No solution there. He has to face the facts: America is a vicious country that doesn't want for her people to improve themselves; social mobility isn't democratic, life isn't fair, and freedom is an illusion. For a moment, he understands what Grantaire feels like most of the time, a mix of bitter and drunk, and when he finally passes out, it's after an angry session of self-loathing masturbation in which he calls out Eponine's name, the name of the girl who denied him in front of all their friends earlier today. In this moment, Feuilly has become Grantaire completely, and the thought of this is so utterly depressing that he idly scratches at his wrist, because he's not brave enough or stupid enough to break the skin, before falling asleep, on his back, arms spread open, looking utterly hopeless even in sleep.


	26. Chapter 26

_I APOLOGIZE FOR BEING A HORRIBLE PERSON WHO DIDN'T UPDATE._

_I was in two shows, and then I had tons and tons of school, and it all piled up, and since it took so long, I give you this, the longest I've written, and I love you all, and please review._

"Once upon a time, there was a girl called Evangeline. She was young, having lived on the earth for just under seventeen years; she was healthy, with a stomach that was full more often than not and a pretty, ruddy complexion; above all, she was vivacious and charming. However, she was often unhappy, for she spent all of her time worrying about and planning for the future. When she was young, she had heard the fable of the grasshopper and the ant, a story designed to teach prudence and wisdom to children, and she had learnt from it all the wrong lessons.

"When she was growing up, she was told that she must learn all that she could. When she asked why, the answer was always so that she could be happy and successful when she was older. So she devoured knowledge like a ravenous wolf would devour a rabbit; however, she kept a secret from the world. She never told anyone that she learned sometimes just because she enjoyed it.

"As she grew up, she learned so much and became filled with so many facts that she was rewarded; she was taken away to a special place with children her age that, too, spent their time learning. They shared her love of knowledge, and, though they did not really know why, they stored away knowledge and facts so that they could be happy and successful when they were older.

"She grew into her young adulthood, and, before long, she was told that she must learn more than ever, that it was essential that she learn the most, that she appear the brightest, that she stand out from among the others. However, she spent so much time learning and worrying about the future that she forgot how to be happy. She forgot how to learn for the sake of enjoyment, and she became infected with the kind of sadness that's bone deep, that's hidden in the eyes and the smile. She faded away, a shadow of her old self, left only with the vestigial remains of a once-great spirit.

"The woebegone Evangeline found solace among others who felt like her, and also among fairy tales. She spent much of her time traveling amongst the stars with a mad man who had lived many lives; she solved mysteries by observing alongside a lonely genius; she fought terrible monsters with a pair of brothers; she disputed with noble families for a throne forged in fire and blood; she helped a curious creature bravely face elves and Orcs to destroy true evil; she had tea with the insane and the lost; she searched negro streets for an angry fix with angelheaded hipsters who held her hand; she walked along a beach, listening to the mermaids sing, wondering if they would sing to her; she wandered Heaven and Hell; she explored Mont Blanc and Tintern Abbey. She learned much more from these fairy tales than she ever had from her professors and textbooks, and she eventually grew detached from the cold world of education that she had once loved.

"When the Judgment Day finally arrived, perhaps she would not meet her world's definition of successful, but she was wise in the ways of contending, like an old friend of hers who had battled men and monsters for twenty years, and she was quite content to live in the world of her imagination. She lived an insouciant life punctuated by coffee with madmen who reminded her of Hatters and Rabbits, by discourses with souls that quaked when they heard the name of "Moloch," by words exchanged with shy suitors who knew that a compliment is something like a kiss through a veil, by kisses bartered from passionate Apollonian revolutionaries, by friendships and love affairs with artists who knew to measure a year in love, by music and dance like something out of an opera, by flowers that she wore woven into her hair, by love and kindness and emotion and a gentle wisdom. She was timid, yet intrepid, and, above all, she was happy."

Cosette looks up, nervously biting her lip; she needn't worry. Eponine's mouth is slightly open, eyes widened, looking, for all intents and purposes, shell-shocked.

"I know I'm not Jehan, I can't write poetry, never have been able to…" Cosette trails off timidly.

"It's gorgeous, C. It really is," the other woman reassures her, anxiously tucking a strand of her dark hair, glossy and recently washed, one of the perks of having moved in with Grantaire, and looking into the bright blue eyes across the coffee table. "Wow. You may not be a poet like Jehan, but, goddamn, you have a way with prose."

Cosette blushes prettily at Eponine's praise. "I hoped you'd like it. I showed it to 'Chetta, and she wants to make it into a short film, y'know, to show the negative effects of the current education system…you know how passionate she is about that…and I was hoping maybe you'd be Evangeline?"

Eponine's mouth falls open. "Wait…really? You want me…to be in your movie?"

"Yeah! I know that you're majoring in accounting, but Courf told me that you're really into theatre…I mean, really, when _aren't _you singing…and I think you'd be a great Evangeline," Cosette beams, taking a sip of her latte (organic, fair trade).

"…yeah, yeah, I'd love to." She's speechless. "When…did I come up with Courf?"

Cosette's expression is suddenly guarded, but not ominously so. "Oh, we were just discussing the show we went to see last Friday, and he said that it was one of your favorites."

It's true. _Red _is one of the most thought-provoking and real plays Eponine has ever seen, the kind that gets down into your stomach and makes it difficult to just sit in the seats, the kind that renders your appetite gone for the next few days, the kind that makes sleep impossible because all you can ever see are the faces of the actors, the set, all you can hear are the words, such passionate pleas and pithy witticisms. But that doesn't explain Cosette's reaction.

"Okay…" Eponine says suspiciously, narrowing her eyes. Cosette averts her eyes; she's a terrible liar.

"I have to go now, lovely; I'm due to meet Pontmercy's grandfather in an hour. Are you sure that this dress is appropriate?" Cosette stands up one last time, giving a slow twirl in the baby blue dress with the lace Peter Pan collar and the long sleeves. It would look frumpy on anyone but Cosette; on her it just looks vintage and chic.

"You look wonderful," Eponine promises, and, gathering her notebook and coffee into her hands, stands to give Cosette a kiss on her cheek goodbye.

Cosette glows. "Thanks, love. See you at the meeting tonight?"

"I might be a bit late…Gavroche needs to be picked up from something…but I'll be there!"

"Good. _Ciao, bella_," Cosette says, offering a final breathtaking smile before turning to float out of the small coffee shop.

When Eponine arrives at the meeting that night, everyone is there except for Cosette and Marius, which would be strange if they hadn't had a prior engagement. It must have run over, she thinks to herself, before settling into Feuilly's side. He starts a bit, having begun to nod off to sleep (he works too much, she thinks but doesn't express), and, once he realizes it's her, grins and throws his arm around her; she presses her face into his broad shoulder and inhales. He smells like sweat and wood dust and smoke and Old Spice Fiji, and it's a wonderful smell. To think that she had ever denied him!

She remembered the conversation that followed that awkward morning after:

_Eponine felt herself being jarred awake. She blinked sleepily before sitting up and attempting to glare at the adorable man kneeling on her bed. "What?"_

_Jehan, his hair that was typically styled to perfection askew and awry after his "morning after" with Courfeyrac, grinned. "Feuilly, huh?"_

_Eponine shot him a look. "You woke me up to gossip?"_

"_Of course!" he smiled. "Now, spill."_

"_There's nothing _to _spill," she lied, vaguely remembering what had happened at Feuilly's party._

"_You know he's Polish, right?"_

_Eponine blinked. "I don't follow?"_

"_So, there's the distinct possibility that he told someone about it," Jehan explained._

"_What in the hell does that have to do with him being Polish?" Eponine asked, confused._

"_I have no clue; I just wanted to bring it up. I also wanted to use it to say, 'Eponine Thernadier, you have no clue where that Pole has been!'" Jehan barely got out the punch line before lapsing into a cackle that sounded like a mix between a high-pitched giggle and a wheeze. Eponine was not amused._

"_Jean Prouvaire!" Jehan looked back at the doorway guiltily. "I swear to God, if you've been making her tell you about Ginger McPolishpants _without me_, I will be one very unhappy alcoholic." Grantaire walked into the room with what can only be described as a swagger. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt that read _Comme Des Fuck Down. _Eponine gasped._

"_Oh, my God, you so got laid!"_

_Grantaire swatted at her half-heartedly. "Did not."_

"_Then what's with the walk and the sex hair and the general, 'Bow down to me, peasants,' attitude you've got goin' on here?"_

"_I dunno what you mean; this is pretty standard," Grantaire deadpanned. It was Eponine's turn to lazily swing at him. "But, my sex life is not the topic of conversation here. You slept with Feuilly, didn't you?"_

"_No!" Eponine protested before seeing the looks on the two faces in front of her. "Maybe…"_

"_Was it good?" Jehan asked, eyes wide._

"_I don't want to talk about this!"_

"_Yes, you do," Grantaire interjected._

"_Yes, I totally do. Oh, God, you guys. I will preface this by saying that I've slept with a decent number of boys, and a decent number of girls, and I've had some truly terrible sex, and I've had some sex that was so good it can only be described as spiritual. So, I say that so that you can understand what I mean when I say—and, remember, I was pretty gone at the time, so it may or may not be an accurate description—but, holy hell, if I don't want to have his abortion," Eponine's eyes glazed over a bit at the memory. "I dunno who taught that boy—nay, that _man_ how to fuck, but good God, a blessing on their household."_

"_Damn," Jehan whispered._

"_Just think, all these years, it's Feuilly I should've been chasing," Grantaire teased._

"_Shut it, you," Eponine whacked him with her pillow._

"_But…you denied him?" Jehan reminded her gently._

_Eponine buried her face in the pillow. "I know! I just…I couldn't deal with it, and everyone was there, and everyone was looking at me, and I wasn't even _sure _if something had happened, and I panicked. Does he hate me now? I bet he does…" she said all in one breath._

"'_Ponine." Grantaire gripped her shoulders gently. "He doesn't hate you. He's confused. Go talk to him about it. Explain. He'll understand."_

"_What if I fuck it up? Feuilly's such a cool guy. What if I screw it up, and it's weird, and-"_

"_Eponine Thernadier." She stopped. "I pined after my Apollo for four years before he finally noticed me. Now, it may not work out; in fact, I've accepted that it probably won't. But, really, the only thing you can do is try, and I promise you that if you chicken out like a little bitch that you'll hate yourself forever. Do it for Past Grantaire; that boy looked for love wherever he could find it, and I guarantee you that if he were standing here now, he'd be telling you to go for it. Oh, wait. He is. I'm right here, bitch, and if you value our friendship and that one time we fucked," he ignores the look on Jehan's face, accompanied by some unattractive spluttering, "then you will call that manly man right now and make a date for coffee." Eponine was silent before reaching for her cell phone._

"'Ponine?" Feuilly nudges her gently. "You okay? You seem a bit out of it."

Eponine looks up at him before leaning over to plant a gentle kiss on the left corner of his mouth, his copper scruff scratching her lips in a way that was definitely not unpleasant. "I'm fine. Don't worry."

He nods, trying to hide his grin as he turns back to the meeting.

There is a shriek from downstairs, and a very ragged Cosette, dress torn, hair in disarray, blood smeared on her face, kicks the door to the private meeting room open. "Help…Marius…his grandfather…me…help…blood!" She's gasping or hyperventilating, Eponine can't tell which.

Musichetta very calmly stands up, grabs Bahorel and Feuilly, the two strongest, by their shirtsleeves, calls, "Joly!" over her shoulder, and marches over to Cosette. "Lead the way, babe. We're here to help." They disappear just as Combeferre and Enjolras are getting to their feet.

"What happened?" Courfeyrac asks, distress evident in his voice.

"I have no clue," Combeferre answers, "but from the evidence, it appears that Marius is injured in some way. Also, Musichetta is a hell of a woman to have around in a crisis." This last remark is directed towards Bossuet, who is on his feet back in a corner and grins at praise of his girlfriend. "Good choice."

"What the hell are we standing here for, then?" Courfeyrac demands. "We have to go help Marius!"

Hours later, after Marius is safely in the hospital, Cosette is cleaned up slightly, and Combeferre has relayed his compliments to Musichetta, the story comes out.

"We were at tea with Marius's grandfather—he's English, you know—and they started disagreeing, and that turned into an argument. I tried to swing the topic away from politics, but Mr. Pontmercy just snapped at me, which only served to further infuriate Marius…"

"Typical," Courfeyrac murmurs. Now that his former roommate and good friend is out of immediate danger, he's feeling a little more relaxed.

"And I don't remember who pushed who first, but it turned into a fight, a legitimate brawl, and I was terrified, and then Marius was on the ground because his grandfather had a _cane_, like we're not civilized people, like we beat people when we don't agree with them…and I should have called 911, but Mr. Pontmercy threw us out and my cell phone was inside, so I dragged Marius as far as I could, but then I couldn't. So I came to get you guys…my perfect guardian angels…" she plants a kiss on Bahorel's temple and Musichetta's forehead, the two sitting nearest to her, and blows kisses to Joly and Feuilly, "and you helped me. He'd lost a lot of blood, I was terrified. Thank you all so much. For helping. For being here now, in a hospital waiting room, drinking truly terrible coffee, on a Friday night. You're all wonderful, and I love you." Cosette is tearing up, and she's not the only one; Jehan and, surprisingly, Joly are wiping away tears. It's Musichetta who smiles and calls out, "Group hug!" but it's Eponine who runs in to be first to hug her friend; God, how times change, she thinks as she wraps her arms around the small blonde and inhales the familiar scent of strawberry.


End file.
